It’s wild to remember a time not too long ago, when I used to write every day, because I had nothing else going on, and it was a structure that I clung to for sanity and salvation.That was twenty twelve.Now it’s twenty seventeen, and I have to breathe fire and wield exotic weapons to claim this modest sliver of sacred space for words to flow from my heart into your mind and Beyond.There are so many consuming demands constantly leaping at my throat.And when I finally touch down on the page, I doubt my mind and the content of my life…. the world as it lives inside me feels like primordial soup, so far from coherency and definition.Maybe it always will… I keep waiting for a day to dawn where my Self is a bold, articulated form, emerging from said ocean of soup.The Self of my wildest dreams– activated, aligned Priestess.Fearless leader and lover of a new world.

But meanwhile I cocoon in my little house in the woods, making literal soup.Not an ocean of soup…. but an impressively substantial, woman-made lake of soup.Yesterday’s soup turned out mediocre (the flavors wouldn’t blend into a smooth, alchemical romance, and no matter how long I cooked the chickpeas, they refused to become perfectly tender…) and as a result, I went to bed wondering if I was depressed.Actually, I woke up wondering if I’m depressed too…

But nah… I vote no.I think it’s just impatience… mingling with the small creative failure of offering sub-par soup.Nothing a deep breath can’t alleviate.

And now for one more semi-frivolous “aside”, before I dive into the meat and potatoes of my soul and life:At the urging of a few of my “fans”, I submitted my last blog entry (“The Death of my Ma”) to Elephant Journal.I was pretty certain there was no way they’d be able to resist this offering of poetically woven depth and raw, naked sharing.But they did.Because it was “too autobiographical”.They said that they are a publication “by the community, for the community” and only accept pieces spoken in the language of “us” and “we”.

To that semantical nonsense, I can only reply “Get fucking real, Elephant Journal”.Isn’t it obvious that my story, my unrelenting commitment to nakedness is FOR YOU?Even a halfwitted moron has the intelligence to read my heart-stained words and touch something intimate and essential within their own life and depths.Sigh… I guess that wasn’t my venue.Because I will not compromise my voice.

And now for the main course.Today it is three weeks since my Ma’s exit from this fabulously rigorous earth drama.I’m not sure if that’s a looooong time…. or short.I bet you would say it is short.But consider that we talked EVERY DAY.So three weeks without her actually feels like wandering an infinite loop of barren existence.Actually, I was being dramatic.The past three weeks have been anything but barren.But God, I miss her… and in that gaping dimension of her physical absence, I am wandering said infinite loop.But thankfully, I am a multidimensional bitch.And I’m actually delighted to announce that losing my Ma is nothing like I imagined it wold be.

I feel simultaneous shame and elation to admit that there is a part of me that is relieved that she has moved on.Because… I am an outrageous creature… And as much as I endeavored to full throttle BE myself… I held back on her account.Or maybe on MY account…. Because I didn’t want to make too many waves in our relationship.A few waves, yes.But I tried to be in control of the quantity and size of the waves.And honestly, that was a subtly draining endeavor.As she lay on her deathbed, I exclaimed to her, “Now I can write whatever I want in my blog!”She smiled and acknowledged this to be true.There was always a sober and moralistic Jiminy Cricket perched on my shoulder, hissing in my ear that I oughtn’t say this or that… because it would offend my Mama.Who knows, maybe he’s still there.But if he dares to pipe in now, he’d better be prepared to have his adorable cricket guts squashed out!!!

Do you want to know the truth of me?I am a wild and timeless tantric Priestess.A sexual healer.My path to and through and with and for God is through the my heavenly body and deeeep into this dense and wondrous world of form.I always felt the need to hide my sexuality from my mom.Sexuality was something she never addressed with me.She never talked to me about the blood that flowed from my womb… the sacred power of desire…. the beauty and holiness of my pussy.I suppose this is because HER mother never addressed it with HER.And I suppose this is a result of our line of ancestral wounding.And the collective suppression of the Divine Feminine.But it aches me to carry this wound.I am here to bring the wound of my lineage to the Light for ultimate transmutation and healing.I am here to reunite sex and God.For the healing of this planet.

At a personality level, this statement probably would have made my Mama squirm.But at a soul level, she is ALL FOR IT.My powerful ownership of my sexuality as whole and HOLY is a healing for her and her mother and all mothers and grandmothers and daughters backward and forward in time.

I don’t know exactly HOW to execute this essential alchemy.It is far beyond “me”.But I do know that the entry point is honesty.Honesty about who I am and what I know deep down in my soul.My path of healing is to integrate and embody the divine wisdom that lives in my soul.My body still carries the wounding of my ancestors… to some degree… though I have already healed a lot.But there is more.I still feel a gap between what I know inside, and what I embody.It is my destiny to live as the unimpeded, ecstatic radiance of LOVE. And if you think that sounds outrageous…. IT IS!!!

…But WE (eat your heart out, Elephant Journal!!!) are the Second Coming.

Who AM I today? I don’t have a flood of words pressing at me from the inside tonight. I feel like I could let my mind wander off in any direction and stumble on something cool. So that’s what I’m gonna do. Like taking a walk with no destination… just being open to the sheer exploration of it. I have really been feeling my life as my artistry these days. I believe this is the truest definition of being an artist~ one who meets moment to moment to moment to moment life in the spirit of exploration, with an intention to engage beauty, sacredness, chaos, mystery…even pain with a playful, curious, creativity and zeal. Simple moments, fully tasted, chewed, sucked and spit back out as a mosaic fountain of aliveness. Oooh, I dig the image of a mosaic fountain! I bet Picasso has one at his “shmansion” (shorthand for shmansy mansion) in the sky with diamonds. Liquid, solid, multidimensional images, colors, geometries, flowing and gurgling in incessant, dreamy merriment from a sacred center.

I’ve really been enjoying Brad lately. Member how I told you that sometimes I feel like I’m at the zoo living with him and getting to observe all his mannerisms up close and personal? Well… the beat goes on. I dunno exactly what it is about him… Maybe that he’s such a vast chasm of paradox. On one hand, he’s about as far out as they COME. A shaman who wanders some pretty desolate, galactic scapes. His fluency in other planes of existence is sharp and dangerous. And yet… he’s such a masculine ape. He loves to fix things. He’s often out tooling with his diesel Mercedes. Honestly, I think he manifests minor “problems” with them, just so he can get lost in the sobering, deep engagement of solving the puzzle. I imagine it’s a relief for one who is so esoterically inclined to have a place in his existence that is purely logical, mathematical, physical. A couple weeks ago, he created a major issue with the lawn mower and then rolled up his burly blue sleeves and became lost in the world mechanical technicalities and integris parts for hours upon hours.

Tonight he ate an entire pint of hagen daas chocolate chocolate chip ice cream as he was cooking his dinner. And the best part was that every once in a while he would breathe in my face. I surfed cold, creamy waves of rich, chocolate heaven. The cool, heavy scent made me instantly orgasmic. Or was the best part the sound of the tiny, frozen chocolate chips crunching between his brutish molars like fossilized raindrops?

Something I LOVE about Brad is that because of his intuitive gifts, his hands have an uncanny way of knowing with horrific precision where my tickle spots are. They don’t dick around. It’s magnetic. And I infallibly scream. This is good for me. I miss being manhandled. I am some one who requires semi frequent biting, slapping, hair pulling and general roughhousing. I might even be considered dangerous… with all this unexpressed wrassle in me. But less so with an occasional kamikaze tickle warfare from my beloved shaman-monger.

You know who else I totally adore? My wizard friend Jack. His love for me is so devotional… it’s kind of astounding. But in its purity, it raises me up. It feels like his sacred seeing of me revives my crumpled wings. He reminds me of my holiness. The way he loves me makes me feel like a fallen angel who is being tenderly cradled and spoon fed holy broth so that I am ready to fly once again and go kick some etheric ASS on the front lines of this illusory holy war. I know from the depths of my soul that he has been awaiting my arrival on Kauai… As a galactic activation check point. I am not kidding. I realize that my words might come across as hokey or mythologically fluffy… but I am so serious. He massages me and I feel felt to the core. I melt and ooze and bloom. And he delights in the blessing of my surrendered pleasure. He reminds me to be vigilant in tending the garden of my thoughts and dreams. He reminds me that every day is new and fresh and ripe. Eager to be milked. A crystal flute full of bubbly, finely distilled awe and bliss.

Sneer. Speaking of bliss, I just got a text message from a “waaaaay detached third party”. He informed me that just for the record, my blog entry about WP DID in fact read as though HE was a bad lover. Well… let’s just say, hypothetically, that this anonymous texter represents a portion of the populous here in Athena Graceland… just say… Allow me to clarify once and for all~ WP IS NOT A BAD LOVER.

Athena Grace is a “bad lover”, if anybody is. But I am not a bad lover either. I am just wanting something more from my sexual encounters, that I don’t exactly know how to ask for, seek, embody… it’s a radical vulnerability. It’s a total loss of control. It’s an opening so far beyond ego identification. An opening to embodied bliss and sacred union. It is wholeness and total freedom from the past. And I am going to find it. Inside. I was kinda hoping that your basic, average, garden variety man would sweep me up on his bareback steed and take me there… while I was just soaking up frivolous and unnecessary beauty sleep and pigging out on warm, streaming rivers of fudge and frosting. But as it turns out, I am the *only* one able and ordained do the work. And then I will attract partners who joyfully meet me there. Surprise. I am a priestess and I have much healing and initiation ahead of me.

Dear God… Dear God… You are the Sun. And I am walking into you. All of me. Merging with your brilliant light. I joyously invite you burn away the illusion that I dreamed I was. Your light is purifying me, restoring my ever perfect holiness. I am ready to shine on this world. My life is in service of All Pervading Beauty. Let me be a vessel for the Miraculous. Use me, God. Help me be courageous and relinquish the illusions that I once believed to be truth. Let me die so that I can truly know Life.

Amen.

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